


the house always wins

by fourhorsemen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourhorsemen/pseuds/fourhorsemen
Summary: Eames has always been a gambling man, but that doesn’t mean he’s good at it.Arthur, it turns out, is his lucky charm.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

Eames purses his lips, eyes on the roulette wheel as it spins almost in slow motion; the ball twines around the edge, rolling, rolling and his hands tighten on his thigh, gripping his pants leg and creasing the fabric. He barely registers Arthur’s presence, hovering over his shoulder, pupils following the small, white ball as it funnels closer and closer to the slots, losing momentum.

Arthur slides sinuously into his lap right as the ball skitters in, long, warm body pressed to his torso, blocking his view. Eames protests die in his mouth when Arthur’s mouth covers his, a slow, sensuous meeting of lips. Eames eyes close of their own volition as the sweet bow of Arthur’s lips parts, a tongue gently licking his bottom lip, all he can hear is his pulse thundering in his ears with the backdrop of the ball bouncing off deflectors.

Then, the sweet pressure is gone, leaving Eames reeling. For just a moment, Arthur stays in his lap, a slight perk to the corner of his lips, the smallest of smiles as he basks in some secret pleasure. He grasps Eames chin with his thumb and forefinger, whispers, “_For luck._” Then, he is standing up fluidly, sliding away, with not a crease on him, just as the ball drops into a slot.

Eames wins twenty thousand dollars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like adding to it, so I did, on a whim.
> 
> For reference this scene is chronologically much earlier than the one in chapter 1.

Eames bets first. He always bets first. There are two kinds of gamblers who bet first - those who don’t care how much they lose, and those who have nothing more left to lose. Depending on the day, Eames is both. So, Eames places his bet on the Pass Line, an irresponsibly large amount of cash, letting the others at the table speculate for themselves what type of gambler he is today.

”Why is it that I always find you in a casino or a gambling den?” he hears a low, familiar voice intone and turns to see Arthur, who rests a hip against the table, leveling him with an unimpressed, yet unsurprised expression. He is dressed exquisitely, as per usual, a navy pinstripe suit that cuts clean lines down his torso, tapering down to a delectably narrow waist. He looks awfully out of place in the seedy gambling den Eames has stationed himself at, in the heart of Dublin. Arthur, leaning against the Craps table, is like a picture cut out of a glossy magazine and crudely pasted onto an sticky advert stuck to a dingy back-alley wall. “Call 888-8888 to join our unregulated gambling club, and you could be him!” Eames imagines it would say, in bold font and much prettier words.   
  
“Why, Arthur, because it makes it so much easier for you to find me,” Eames drawls, grins rakishly, and deliberately lets his eyes follow the lines of Arthur’s body. It’s more of an obfuscation, than a flirtation. Eames finds it is much easier to mask genuine pleasure under a thick veneer of an exaggerated leer. It wouldn’t do to alert present company of his particular weakness for well-dressed men. Arthur rolls his eyes, the hint of a dimple in his cheek the only indication of his grudging appreciation for Eames’ sleazy brand of humour.

Eames picks up two die out of the five, cheap red plastic, likely loaded, and presents them to Arthur in his upturned palm.  
  


“Blow on them, darling,” he says, winking at suspicious strangers who stare impatiently, some with meager bets on the pass line. A pot-bellied Irishman, ginger-haired and balding, smiles cruelly at him, glances at his bet and places a few pounds on the Don’t Pass line. He is there only for the pleasure of seeing Eames lose a truly disgusting amount of money. Eames smiles back winningly, only too happy to appease the masses.   
  


Arthur stares at him, a strange look in his eyes, then shrugs lightly and humours him. He bends down, purses his lips and blows lightly at the two die. Eames meets his eyes as he does, looks at him speculatively, pleasantly surprised that a man who he’s seen scoff openly at the Astrology section of the New York Times is willing to infuse his die with luck, so to speak. Eames rolls them, and they clatter onto the table.  
  


_Four. _  
  
_Three. _  
  


A seven, he wins the bet.

Eames laughs raucously at the look on the belligerent Irishman’s face when Eames collects his money. When he glances up mid-laugh, Arthur’s face is slack and unguarded, mouth slightly open in a wondering expression. Eames clears off, stack of bills in hand because the game ends when he wants it to end in a place like this. He grabs the die in the uproar.

He leads Arthur out the exit, whistling merrily and if he lets his hand drift across Arthur’s trim waist, it is because it has been begging for his touch. When they are a street away, Eames presses the die into Arthur’s hand.   
  


“For you, you won them fair and square,” Eames tells him and Arthur simply accepts them with a faint smile and a nod. He slips them into his pocket.

”So, about this job,” Eames begins, because with Arthur, it is always about a job. He is far too distracted to make much of the look Arthur is giving him, like he had forgotten why he had sought out Eames in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you guessed it, one of those die is Arthur’s totem. It’s not a loaded die but Arthur drills a hole and fills it later so it always lands on three.


End file.
